


it's not about your body, it's just social implications

by prettydizzeed



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Arguing, Author is trans, Communication, Developing Relationship, Explicit Consent, Hand Jobs, M/M, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Trans Grantaire, Trans Male Character, discussions of transphobia, safe sex, y'all there is So Much consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-21 03:07:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13731831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettydizzeed/pseuds/prettydizzeed
Summary: Normally, listening to Enjolras is something between a metaphor for open-heart surgery and a divine encounter, but right now, it's just annoying.His sentence ends with “—trans people’s lives are unfairly limited by a cisheteronormative society,” and Grantaire figures now is as bad a time as any to snort.





	it's not about your body, it's just social implications

**Author's Note:**

> this was supposed to be 1k PWP and it ended up being 7k of mostly me yelling about transphobia in the gay community with a little bit of sex tacked on at the end, so... enjoy, i guess?
> 
> title is from "She Way Out" by The 1975; that line always gives me Trans Feels TM
> 
> thank you Ali for dragging me into this fandom and also sorry Ali i know you support trans enj with your entire being

Grantaire wishes he’d skipped this meeting. 

He'd thought about it earlier, when he'd seen the topic, but Bousset pointed out that his rare batch of unburnt cookies would all be gone by the time the meeting ended, and Musichetta made it clear that no one was getting any ahead of time. The dessert was great, but now Grantaire has painstakingly eaten every last sprinkle off of his napkin, and being here is no longer worth it.

Normally, listening to Enjolras is something between a metaphor for open-heart surgery and a divine encounter, but right now, it's just annoying.

His sentence ends with “—trans people’s lives are unfairly limited by a cisheteronormative society,” and Grantaire figures now is as bad a time as any to snort. 

Enjolras arches a perfect eyebrow. Grantaire is certain he's never used off-brand pharmacy eyeshadow to fill them in, to make them wider, careful to do so subtly enough to suggest that it could be their natural appearance.

It occurs to him that Enjolras probably would painstakingly apply makeup if he decided it would make a point about societal double standards, and that thought and the adjacent bitterness are what make him open his mouth.

“You are, predictably, ignoring the fact that the gay community is transphobic as fuck.”

Enjolras is tensing before Grantaire even makes it to the last syllable of “predictably.” He takes a breath, and Grantaire is too pissed to track the movement of his chest with the usual mixture of desire and envious self-flagellation.

“I'm not ignoring that fact. I'm specifically arguing against it.” He speaks slowly, like he's trying to keep himself from saying something he regrets, and normally Grantaire would grin.

“No, you're arguing against transphobia in society as a whole—and proposing entirely unrealistic measures, but that's to be expected. Transphobia in queer spaces requires an entirely different approach and is also significantly more painful.”

“What do you propose I do, then?” Enjolras asks, sighing. “I don't exactly have access to any LGBTQ+ groups other than this one.”

“First of all, access has never stopped you on any other issue, and second of all, you say that as if there isn't transphobia to address within this space.”

Enjolras blinks.

“Okay, wow, you really think there isn't transphobia to address within this space. You want to know how many people asked my pronouns when I first came here? One, and it was Jehan, and he already knew, he was just doing it so I wouldn't have to have the whole ‘By the way, I'm a guy’ conversation with everyone.”

Enjolras glances at Jehan, who looks like he, too, wishes he’d skipped this meeting, but he still nods.

“Okay, we'll address this topic at the next exec meeting,” Enjolras says, which is the closest he's ever come to an apology. “Maybe there's enough left in the budget to buy pronoun buttons or something like that.”

“The exec board that's entirely composed of cis people,” Grantaire responds, because Enjolras isn't the only one who doesn't know how to let things go; it's practically a prerequisite for being in their friend group.

Enjolras raises an eyebrow. “I don't remember you running for a position.”

“Maybe because the exec board has _always_ been entirely composed of cis people.”

“Fine,” Enjolras says, so sharply Grantaire thinks he hears Enjolras’s teeth click, “If you refuse to use your own energy to change things, what do you suggest those of us who are actually involved do for you?”

“This isn't about just me.” Grantaire’s voice is equally clipped.

“Okay, then what should we do to improve the club for all future transgender members?”

“You can start by not asking me that and doing some goddamn research,” Grantaire snaps. “I don't represent every trans person on the planet. And it's honestly really isolating for you to keep calling attention to the fact that no one else here gets it. You act so fucking morally superior, but you're no better than cishets patting themselves on the back for having a gay friend if you can't recognize the fact that that's tokenizing.”

Musichetta slides her chair back from the table, and Joly winces at the screech. “As much as I love listening to the two of you argue, I've got an 8 a.m. tomorrow. Grantaire, you can get a ride?”

He knows that's code for _let it go or walk home_ , and he's not letting it go, so he nods. She kisses his forehead on her way out, her boyfriends trailing behind her. Joly gives Grantaire a look that he knows is supposed to be encouraging, but it only comes off as nervous.

“That's my cue,” Courfeyrac says, standing and stretching. It's been long established that when Musichetta reaches her Bullshit Limit, everyone else knows better than to stick around. _Play nice_ , he mouths over his shoulder at Grantaire, and winks. Combeferre is out the door before it closes behind him, nodding quickly at everyone and pulling his coat tighter around him. Eponine rolls her eyes. 

“You're both idiots,” she informs them. She's looking at Grantaire when she says it, but when the door clatters shut, it's her affectionate slam, not her angry slam, so he isn't too worried.

Bahorel claps him on the shoulder, laughing, Feuilly close behind him. Jehan had slipped out sometime during the conversation to go to a poetry reading across town, and Cosette and Marius didn't come today, so it's just him and Enjolras now. Grantaire rotates in his chair to look at him again.

“You might as well sit down.”

Enjolras sits.

“I’ll do some research,” Enjolras begins, folding his arms on the table. “I know you’ve frequently complained that cis people don’t know how to use Google.”

Grantaire snorts, but he’s also surprised that Enjolras remembers that. “Yeah, well, at least you didn’t ask what’s in my pants.”

Enjolras flushes, just barely, but continues. “I should have considered that my position of privilege would make me unaware of problems within the gay community that don’t affect me. I know it’s not your job to educate me, but if you’re willing, I would like to know your personal experience, not just that of strangers on the internet.”

Grantaire frowns, but Enjolras did just practically apologize, and he can’t remember the last time that happened, so he must be serious about this. “Okay, yeah, sure. I mean… most of it is just pent-up frustration at transphobia in gay spaces—like, especially spaces for dating and hooking up—and people who defend it with shit like ‘genital preferences.’ And then, like, every time someone makes a joke that boils down to ‘I’m gay so I don’t like vagina’ or ‘I’m a lesbian so I don’t like dick,’ or even, ‘Oh, I’m pan, so of course I’d date a trans guy’ when you can be gay and date a trans guy _because they’re a guy_ —even if they aren’t trying to be transphobic, it just reminds you of all the other shit people have said.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “That’s not, like, a huge problem at Les Amis. I mean, the jokes that equate gender to genitals, yeah, kind of, but. It’s more of a general frustration, not something I’m mad at you guys about or anything.”

Enjolras nods, but Grantaire can tell from the set of his shoulders that he’s well on his way to being righteously infuriated. His voice is deceptively calm. “So you’re saying people have been uninterested in you solely because you’re trans?”

Grantaire laughs sharply. “Yes, Apollo. All the time. And I mean, it probably shouldn’t bother me, but—if a trans person rejects me, fine, they're just rejecting my personality, whatever. If a cis person rejects me, by default it feels like a rejection of my transness. And cis people can keep whining about how that's unfair, how they can't be expected to be attracted to people like me, I'm not saying that there aren't other reasons cis people wouldn't be interested or that every dismissal is inherently transphobic, but you get told often enough that ‘you seem cool but I just really like dick,’ and you learn it's best to stop bothering.”

Despite a near-constant stream of self-deprecation since he showed up and suddenly, seamlessly, was a part of the group, this is more than Grantaire has ever given away.

“They're bigoted assholes,” Enjolras says, with the same force with which he detailed the need for education reform last week and described potential anti-discrimination bills an hour ago.

“Yeah, I know,” Grantaire says. He doesn't look away from Enjolras, but he makes his wariness a little more apparent. “Not all of us are able to filter our attraction so we only want to fuck appropriately progressive and involved activists.” _Just me_ , he adds in his head, but Enjolras is already responding.

“Someone doesn't have to be an activist to treat you with respect. You deserve better than someone who rejects you on the basis of your body.”

Grantaire looks upward for a beat. Inhales. “Yeah, well, if you find him, let me know. Unless he decides he'd rather fuck you instead.”

“If that happened, then he would fail to meet the criteria I just described. I'm not interested in having sex with bigots.”

 _I didn’t know you were interested in having sex, period_ , Grantaire thinks, but that doesn’t stop him from rolling his eyes. “Either we have different definitions of bigot, or you didn't hear any of my rant about how the gay community is _transphobic as fuck_.”

 “Well, I'm not going to sleep with someone who would reject a person solely because they’re trans.”

“You do realize you have no way of knowing that? Apollo, you're cis. And even if you were to, like, ask them, it's easy for them to say sure, they'd fuck me in theory, when they don't have to worry about it because you're the one they'll be fucking in reality.” Grantaire swallows. All of this talk about Enjolras fucking and being fucked isn’t good for his heart—by which he means his cardiovascular health, not his emotional, because the latter can’t exactly get much worse. 

“Then I won’t have sex with anyone. It's not like it's a high priority for me, anyway. Or I could only sleep with trans men, since I could be certain that they aren’t transphobic.”

Grantaire stares at him. Some part of him is trying to be thrilled, but it's overpowered by the rest of him, which is furious.

“Is that your idea of being subtle?” he bites out.

“What?” Enjolras looks genuinely confused, which only pisses Grantaire off more; he was, apparently, being offensive without even trying to imply anything. 

He continues without pausing. “And what the actual fuck, Apollo, you seem to have no fucking clue that trans men can still be disgustingly transmisogynistic; hell, you don’t even realize that what you just said was ridiculously fetishizing.

“As for your confusion regarding my original commentary on your statement, since you seem to be incapable of understanding how that was a completely fucking unfair thing to say—you know one trans man, so you tell him you want to have sex with a trans man as if he doesn't know that you haven't bothered to meet any other trans people in the past three years. Again: is that your idea of being subtle?”

Enjolras shrugs, but doesn’t recoil like Grantaire expected. “It was my idea of making a point.”

“That’s exactly it, Enjolras. Trans men deserve more—I deserve more, and don’t give me that look, you’d know that I do occasionally manage an ounce of self-worth nowadays if you’d been paying attention—than to be a pawn in your quest to assure yourself of your allyship. Wow, you're so progressive, you aren't even repulsed by me. Too bad; I won't be used as proof of your dedication to your politics.”

Enjolras frowns. It changes every aspect of his face; his eyes look colder, his lips pressed more firmly together, his nose even more like it has been reincarnated from marble. “I wasn’t asking you to be.” 

“Of course.” Grantaire laughs, and it’s a bitter sound. “You meant you’d fuck any _other_ trans man for the cause. I believe not even Bousset is so unlucky—no, I am certain, since he and I share a wall. Thank you as usual for the reminder that even among an undesirable minority, I am the least desirable. I'd say go fuck yourself, but based on this conversation, I don't think you'd meet your own standards.”

Enjolras’s expression shifts again, this time to defensive. “You're saying I'm transphobic?”

Grantaire runs a hand over his face and sighs. _Yes_ , he thinks, and normally he would say it, but right now he just wants to diffuse this bizarre conversation and go home. “I'm saying you think you know everything about issues that don't affect you, and that if you actually want to be inclusive, you need to learn from trans people—a variety of trans people, not just me—instead of assuming you know what it's like and how to fix things.” 

Enjolras looks at him for a moment, still hovering on the edge of anger, then nods and stands. His voice is cool. Grantaire still feels like he's being burned alive. “Thank you for the advice. It was nice to see you contributing to the meeting in a constructive manner.”

Grantaire rolls his eyes, but his voice is pleasant enough when he says, “Goodnight, Apollo.”

“Goodnight,” Enjolras says, and turns to leave. 

Grantaire watches him walk off for a few seconds, then thinks, _fuck it_. It can't get much worse than what they've already said tonight, what they say every night after a meeting. It’s not like he’d be able to sleep if he went home, anyway. “Wait,” Grantaire says, standing up and feeling way too dramatic as he does so. He waits until Enjolras turns back to face him. “Actually, I have more to say, and if you really want to be an ally, you’ll listen.”

Enjolras crosses his arms, but he nods slowly, so Grantaire takes a deep breath, clenching his hands in his pockets.

“You talk about societal standards so often, so I really don't understand how you don't get that I've been fucking conditioned to need your approval. I'm sick of cis gay men who say I make them question their sexuality, or act like my body is a box to check and shock their friends with stories about the next morning, and the fact that you only considered sleeping with a trans man to make yourself feel better, to convince yourself that you never perpetuate transphobic behaviors, is no better than that.

“I never asked to be dependent on a cis gay man to affirm my gender, but I get told enough that ‘oh it's okay, I'm bi, so I like vagina too,’ and get told by cis and trans people alike that I should just sleep with bi and pan people for that very reason, that suddenly being attractive to a cis gay man is the gold standard, the ultimate proof that I'm a ‘real man.’ So for you to trivialize that—you didn't even consider that you might get rejected, because you know it wouldn't happen—you just, you didn't remotely consider the power you bring to such a scenario, and that's pretty fucked. Saying it to me specifically was a dick move, too, but whatever—R has no sense of self-preservation, what else is new.”

“What do you mean?” Enjolras asks, and Grantaire blinks at him.

“Which part?”

“That it was especially insensitive of me to direct such a comment at you.”

Grantaire laughs sharply. “So you aren't just completely oblivious when it comes to transphobia, then. I guess that's a relief.”

Enjolras frowns, moving to cross his arms but then seeming to decide against it. “R, please just be direct with me.”

“I love that you refuse to use the word ‘straight’ as part of any colloquial expression,” Grantaire says, grinning, then rolls his eyes when Enjolras opens his mouth to repeat himself, or maybe begin a tirade about the importance of paying attention to the nuanced implications of language. “It's nothing, Apollo, I'm just alluding to the small matter of my hopeless attraction to you. That would be why I said it was cruel to tell me you wanted to sleep with a trans guy as if you were doing me—and the whole community, even—a fucking favor by offering to fuck me.”

Enjolras stares. “That was not my intention.”

Grantaire figures he's exceeded his Eponine-imposed daily limit of eye rolls, but he doesn’t want to sigh, either, so he ends up sort of twitching for a second, caught between expressions. “Yes, of course, you never meant to suggest that you could possibly be interested in me, my apologies for any offense. What was your intention, then?” he asks, not trying to disguise the bitterness.

“I—” Enjolras swallows. “You said it was hard to know if gay men would be interested in you, and that you have become disillusioned enough that you aren’t going to indicate your attraction to people for fear of rejection, so I—I was trying to make it clear that I would not reject you. I see now that I did not go about it in the best way; I was not trying to seem like I was fetishizing you.” 

“You—what?” 

Enjolras sighs. “I was trying to indicate that I would like to sleep with you, Grantaire.”

Of course Grantaire’s ability to make anything into a self-deprecating joke chooses this moment to abandon him. “So, what, I get worked up about trans rights and you realize, ‘hey, he actually does give a shit about something, I think I’d like to fuck him’?”

“I’ve wanted this for a long time,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire shakes his head.

“You've wanted this; that's different from wanting me. I’m just a body present only to bring a concept to its realization, and honored indeed that the state of my body did not make you realize your mistake until presently.”

“Grantaire.” Enjolras waits until he looks at him. “I've wanted to go home with you after every meeting for the past month.”

Grantaire wonders briefly if Enjolras has been hit on the head at a protest lately. He's not entirely sure what the signs of a concussion are, or whether having one would cause someone to imagine they're attracted to people they were formerly civil with at best, but maybe he should text Joly and ask.

“Come home with me, then,” he says instead, rushed, the syllables tripping over each other in their hurry to ensure that Enjolras doesn't have time to take it back, and maybe also so that Grantaire doesn’t have time to think too hard about this and die on the spot.

Enjolras makes time. “Are you sure? Not five minutes ago you were certain I was mocking you by attempting to express interest—which I now understand was not handled respectfully, but still, I don't want you to doubt my intentions—”

Grantaire can't bring himself to care about Enjolras’s intentions. Enjolras could leave immediately after and never speak to him again, and knowing that ahead of time wouldn't change Grantaire's answer. He wasn't lying when he said he has no sense of self-preservation; ask anyone.

Grantaire waves him off, hand fluttering from both impatience and nervousness. “Fine, then, to be emphatically clear: this does not stem from pity or politics. You don't get to add sleeping with a trans man to your list of performative allyship, because we aren't going to announce this. You're doing this for you, not for your reputation.”

Enjolras nods, and Grantaire takes a deep breath and tries not to believe him. It's a lost cause, far moreso than anything Enjolras tries to force the world into caring about through sheer force of will and scathing speeches. “Okay.”

“I have some concerns, as well,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire laughs because of course he does and of course that's how he says it. 

“Go for it.”

“I want to be certain that you will not agree to anything with which you are uncomfortable. I am aware of the power imbalance, since you just talked about how sleeping with a cis gay man is overly glorified,” Enjolras cringes, presumably at the implications of deification, “and I do not want to take advantage of you.” 

“Trust me, you’re not,” Grantaire says. “And I won’t say yes to anything I don’t want.” He decides not to mention how difficult it would be for Enjolras to suggest something he doesn’t want.

“Okay.” Enjolras takes out his phone and messes with it, then holds it out to Grantaire. “I was tested a month ago and haven’t been sexually active since then; here’s a picture of the results.”

Grantaire takes it, slightly amused by how formal Enjolras is. He probably has a checklist in his head of things that must be discussed before sex, and it doesn’t escape Grantaire that they’re having this conversation at the Musain, where neither of them will be distracted by the heat of the moment. 

Then he thinks about Enjolras making that mental checklist, _planning_ to have a pre-sex conversation with him, thinking about having sex with him enough that he _prepared_ for it—Grantaire swallows hard. He looks at the phone; Enjolras is clean.

“I’m clean, too,” Grantaire says, handing Enjolras’s phone back to him with one hand while taking his out of his back pocket with the other. He puts in the passcode and swipes through his photo album. “This is from a little over three months ago, but I haven’t had sex since then.” He can’t help rolling his eyes at Enjolras’s frown. “The recommendation is every three to six months if you’re sexually active, and I was planning on going soon, anyway, because destigmatize testing and all that, chill out.”

Enjolras nods and gives his phone back. “We could go together, if you wanted.”

Maybe that shouldn’t sound vaguely romantic, but then again, maybe that’s the societal stigma against getting tested talking; either way, Grantaire takes a second to remember how to breathe.

Enjolras continues talking. “And lastly—you asked me to come home with you. Combeferre is at Courfeyrac’s tonight, so I think it might be preferable for you to come home with me.”

Grantaire swallows hard. “Yeah. Yeah, okay, that makes sense—let me text Musichetta real quick.” 

He types _going home with someone do not disturb or ill never forgive you_ as fast as possible and hits send, then adds _were both sober well be safe stop freaking out love you_ , because he knows her, and he knows Joly, who will inevitably read it.

Enjolras’s apartment is close. Grantaire holds the door for him on the way out the Musain, and they walk back in mostly silence, but Grantaire is incredibly aware of the way Enjolras keeps glancing at him. They reach Enjolras’s building and go in.

They don't touch at all on the way up the stairs, don't even brush shoulders, but at the landing, Enjolras is suddenly close, Grantaire not quite pressed against the door; there's space to duck away if he wants to, but he could just as easily lean back into the wood. “Can I kiss you?” Enjolras asks, so fast Grantaire almost can't tell what he said—or maybe that's because he's distracted by how Enjolras bites his lip immediately after.

“Yeah,” Grantaire says, because he could just kiss Enjolras, but he'd rather be reminded that yes, Enjolras does want to kiss him. He leans back, and Enjolras follows him, presses his lips into Grantaire's, softly at first. It's the first time Grantaire has seen him so hesitant, and so near to being gentle.

Enjolras tries to open the door, but he's still kissing Grantaire, and he drops the key on the ground and swears. 

Grantaire laughs and bends to pick it up, then turns to the door. Enjolras hasn't moved, so this means he's pressed to Grantaire's back, which means Grantaire is even more proud that the key fits and turns on the first try, never mind that his hands shake. He’s not entirely sure this is real, but Enjolras is solid against him when he closes the door behind them and kisses him again, deeper this time, and Grantaire can’t really bring himself to care about reality.

“Um,” Enjolras says, breaking away from him, and Grantaire is proud that he only thinks _fuck, he’s regretting it already_ for the span of a second before shutting that idea down. Enjolras is always sure. “Do you want—we have water, and maybe some juice, I think, if Combeferre didn’t drink it all with breakfast, or—”

Grantaire laughs, maybe a little too loudly. Whatever. “No, thanks, but I am gonna use your bathroom real quick.”

Enjolras nods. For a moment he looks almost nervous, but then he’s calmly removing his jacket and placing it on the ridiculously organized coat rack—seriously, who their age has a coat rack? Combeferre is an actual alien, or maybe a time traveler—and Grantaire figures he must’ve imagined it. He goes to the singular, tiny bathroom, one of the many reasons Enjolras and Combeferre rarely host group gatherings, and when he comes back, Enjolras is sitting on the couch.

Grantaire swallows. “Hey,” he says weakly.

“Hey,” Enjolras says, like the thought that this is awkward—and unexpected, and bizarre, and vaguely terrifying—never occurred to him. “Do you want to discuss what we’re into now or later?”

 _Checklist_ , Grantaire thinks again, and decides to postpone dealing with the fact that he finds this attractive instead of uncomfortably clinical. Eponine will have a field day; God, she’ll probably ask why he isn’t into Combeferre, if analysis is what gets him going. 

“Later,” Grantaire says decisively, and Enjolras reaches for his hand and tugs him onto the couch.

Grantaire has always kind of figured that Courfeyrac’s portrayal of Enjolras as a complete virgin was inaccurate, and he was right; Enjolras has clearly done this before, as evidenced by the shit he keeps doing with his tongue that makes Grantaire’s knees feel pleasantly numb, which is honestly a little bit of a scary sensation.

“You shouldn’t be so good at talking _and_ kissing,” Grantaire grumbles. “Not fair. Your tongue needs to fucking pick one. What happened to communism? Distribute your skills to the masses, Enjolras.” He’s aware that he isn’t making much sense, and Enjolras’s raised eyebrow emphasizes this.

“You want me to kiss the masses in the name of communism?”

Grantaire tilts his head, considering. “No. I mean, it would probably convert them, but I’d rather you keep kissing me, so...”

Enjolras does. 

A few minutes later, Enjolras pulls back from where he’s been systematically making his way down Grantaire’s throat to look at him, glancing down at Grantaire’s hips and biting his lip. His hand hovers, uncertain; it’s weird to see his movements so halted, in contrast to the usual sweeping gestures he makes when he talks. “Can I—” 

Grantaire’s heart does something that would have Joly driving him to an emergency room. “God, yes.” 

Enjolras palms at the bulge of his packer through his jeans, and Grantaire _knows_ he can't feel it, not like Enjolras could if it was the other way around, but his hips jerk forward anyway and he bites his lip closed over an embarrassing sound.

Then Enjolras is the one biting Grantaire's lip, and he gives up on keeping the sound back.

“What do you like?” Enjolras asks against his mouth.

Grantaire pulls back and looks at him. “When I said later, I didn’t think that meant when your hand was _currently on my dick_.” 

“Sorry—” Enjolras says, jerking his hand away, and Grantaire shakes his head.

“That wasn’t a complaint. I mean, okay, it was sort of a complaint, but about the talking part, not the touching part.”

Enjolras puts his hand on Grantaire’s thigh. “Communication is important,” he says petulantly, dragging his hand upward.

“Again, communication is hard when your hand is on my cock,” Grantaire says, inhaling sharply.

“My hand isn’t on your cock yet,” Enjolras points out, which is true—his thumb is just barely not brushing Grantaire’s packer.

“Can it be?” Grantaire asks weakly, and barely has time to regret his honesty, his fucking obviousness, before Enjolras is touching him.

“I like that,” he offers, even though he just made that very apparent, and Enjolras smiles. 

“What else?”

“Uh, I mean, I guess a big thing is I like words like that—like, I have a dick, I have a cock, not… other stuff. So like, stuff involving that—my dick, I mean—is good. Uh, the real one—’real,’ you know what I mean—not the packer, although don’t get me wrong, that’s great, too, like, really good. Stuff involving, like, a hole, uh, kind of depends; it’s not an automatic no, but dysphoria is kinda hard to predict during sex, for me.” Grantaire’s face is burning, which is dumb, because he talks about sex all the time. Rarely when Enjolras is in the room, though; he always figured trying to make him jealous would never work. “I dunno, I like kissing during sex. And I would really like it if you took my pants off now.”

“I don’t really know what I like,” Enjolras says, reaching for the button of Grantaire’s jeans, entirely too composed. “I mean, I’ve had sex before, but it’s always been kind of… boring.”

 Grantaire coughs slightly. “No pressure.”

Enjolras shrugs. “I didn’t want them like I want you,” he says matter-of-factly, and Grantaire swallows. _I like you saying you want me_ , he thinks, but he’s not about to say that out loud. Instead, he kisses him, which means it takes a lot longer to get Grantaire’s pants off but is worth it for the noise Enjolras makes in the back of his throat. 

Enjolras gets his own pants off, too, eventually, and then they’re a tangle of limbs on the couch, and Grantaire tries not to worry about if it feels weird for Enjolras to be grinding against a dick that isn't hard, and he's going to need to wash his packer tomorrow and can't bring himself to care, even though he's almost out of cornstarch (and Joly refuses to cook with it unless the box is unopened, because “No one wants genital cupcakes, Grantaire,” even though he's explained that it's clean by that point and _it's not like he puts the cornstarch back in the box, for fuck’s sake. Good Lord, Joly_ ). 

“Ferre—” Enjolras gasps, still rocking against Grantaire’s hip, and Grantaire gives him a look like _seriously?_ , but it’s more joking than immediately panicking. Mostly. “Combeferre is adamant—that no sex occur on the—communal couch,” he continues, and Grantaire laughs, partially in amusement, partially in relief, and partially because of the giddy, punch-drunk feeling humming through him, like how it felt at 3am when he was younger and stayed awake for fun instead of because sleeping had stopped being an option. He manages to stand and pull Enjolras to his feet. They almost fall three times on the way to the bedroom, once because of the way their socks slide on the cheap tile and twice because of each other, but they get there. Grantaire has never been so grateful for shitty apartments; the room is so small that the bed is immediately in front of the door, and they half-fall, half-jump onto it. Enjolras’s shoulder knocks into Grantaire’s teeth, and it hurts like hell for a minute, and this is the second best moment of his fucking life, right after his art exhibit two months ago when Eponine showed up with four bottles of sparkling grape juice and all of Les Amis in tow and no one said a word about the choice of beverage.

(That’s a lie; the vast majority of him is completely certain that this is it, the climax of the shitty thrift store novel of his life, it’s all downhill from here, but it feels like a slight to Eponine and Musichetta and everyone other than Enjolras—and maybe even Enjolras, because it’s kind of objectifying—to declare this sex, at this point just the possibility of sex, to be the best thing that’s ever happened to him. It might not even be good sex.) (God, he hopes it’ll be good sex. For Enjolras, not for him; and he knows Enjolras has at least twelve typed rants about the importance of both partners’ pleasure, but he really, genuinely thinks getting Enjolras off would be— _will_ be—better than any orgasm he’s ever had. Musichetta would say that’s unhealthy. Whatever, he has more important issues than some minor obsession-slash-idolatry to unload on the campus counselor she drags him to.)

Enjolras tugs his shirt off, and Grantaire takes off his own and tosses it somewhere over the edge of the bed, then manages to toe off his socks. “We’re getting naked, right?” Grantaire asks, because it's always good to check; Musichetta harps on communication even more than Enjolras does because of the whole polyamory thing. Enjolras looks over from where he’s pulling at his left sock, trying to get it off without standing up; Grantaire can’t remember when exactly they took their shoes off, but it must’ve been sometime before their pants, so that’s good.

“I thought that was the plan, yes,” Enjolras says. “But of course, if you don’t want to—”

“Fuck, no, of course I do. It’s just—” Grantaire hesitates, his hands on the waistband of his boxers. “Look, so, this,” he gestures vaguely at the boxer-covered area, “isn't going to look like you expect, it's, like, taking T does a lot of stuff and—”

Enjolras leans forward and covers Grantaire’s hands with his own. “I know what to expect.”

“You—what?”

Enjolras blushes, barely, so fast that Grantaire wonders if it's a shadow. “I tried to curb any—thoughts—of you, since they were in a context with which I didn't know if you'd be comfortable, but I admit to failing in a couple of instances, and I wanted any… anything I pictured to be accurate.”

Grantaire is really glad he's already laying down, because unless literally all of his blood has left his brain in favor of his dick, he's pretty fucking sure Enjolras just confessed to fantasizing about him. To _doing research_ in order to fantasize _accurately_ about him.

“You're gonna have to say that again,” he manages, although he's sure his attempt at a smirk looks more like he's dying. It wouldn't be entirely inaccurate.

Enjolras rolls his eyes. “I said, I jerked off thinking about you, and felt guilty because I didn't know if you'd be be okay with that.”

“Holy fuck,” Grantaire breathes. Then, “I take it back. You aren’t Apollo. You care way more about consent.” 

Maybe the most surprising part of any of this is that Enjolras laughs. Grantaire takes off his boxers. He can hear Enjolras’s intake of breath, but he’s kind of scared to look at him and see if that’s a result of desire or shock. _He knows what he’s getting into_ , Grantaire reminds himself, but that doesn’t shut up the part of him that is convinced Enjolras is disgusted.

“I want to suck you off,” Enjolras says, rushed and breathy and like he has just realized this, and every part of Grantaire's brain shuts up at once. It's so different from Enjolras's normal speech, how composed and eloquent he is even with no preparation, and that plus the words themselves causes Grantaire to make a strangled noise.

“Shit,” Grantaire says. “Okay.”

 “You're sure?” 

Grantaire would think Enjolras was teasing him if he hadn't spent the whole evening—and before that, his entire life—double-checking for consent, which is honestly both endearing and pretty amazing, as in, where have the guys who ask to touch him like they really want to, but also like they'd rather him be comfortable than anything else, been Grantaire’s entire life?

So instead of rolling his eyes, Grantaire grins. “So sure.”

“I have, um,” Enjolras says, leaning so far off the bed that he almost falls, “a dental dam in here somewhere—”

It turns out Enjolras has an entire shoebox of assorted dental dams and condoms, most of which have the logos of various reproductive justice groups emblazoned on the packaging.

Grantaire raises his eyebrows. “I would’ve expected this more from Courfeyrac, to be honest.”

Enjolras laughs. Grantaire had thought that he liked Enjolras angry, radiant in response to something he’d said, thought he could never be more passionate—and even if he could, Grantaire would never see him like that, so what was the point—but this. This is Enjolras at his most alive, when he laughs. Grantaire never wants to stop making him look like that. 

“Courf has his own box,” Enjolras admits. “It’s… significantly emptier, by now.”

“No one in your apartment has to actually buy condoms, huh?” Grantaire asks, and Enjolras shrugs, grabs one of the dental dams, and shoves the box back under his bed. He runs his hand down Grantaire’s side.

“Is this still good?”

Grantaire can’t help but smile. “Yes. I imagine I’ll be telling you soon exactly how good it is.”

Enjolras blushes, which is still a miracle, and opens the dental dam. He puts in on Grantaire carefully and starts to kiss up Grantaire’s thighs, and former constants like time and space and fucking reality immediately cease to exist, so Grantaire isn’t really sure how long it is before Enjolras’s mouth is on his cock, but then _god, Enjolras’s mouth is on his cock_ , and he told Musichetta he would be safe but that was a _lie_ because he’s going to fucking _die here_ , his tombstone will read “Here Lies R: Fucked a God Once” and it will be _art_.

“Can I use my fingers, um,” Enjolras asks, and gestures, and Grantaire swears for a long time before saying yes, fuck yes, and then Enjolras puts some lube on his fingers—because he _researched this_ , and Grantaire could come from just the thought of that if he let himself think about it—and does, slowly, and Grantaire is the luckiest man on earth because he is going to die so, so happy.

He says something to this effect, and Enjolras pulls back just barely to smirk at him and say, “Only little deaths tonight,” and Grantaire about swoons. Or comes. Or something.

“Who makes a fucking pun while going down on someone,” Grantaire grumbles, or tries to, anyway, because Enjolras’s lips are wrapped around his cock and he is incapable of saying anything that doesn’t come out as a gasp. Enjolras just sort of hums, which feels _fucking amazing_ , and Grantaire’s swearing make Enjolras look all smug again. It’s a good look on him.

“I’ve never seen you—so self-satisfied,” Grantaire says, fingers curling into the sheets. “Satisfied, certainly, but always about—something noble, a—group accomplishment—”

“There is nobility in this, surely,” Enjolras says, and crooks his fingers. Grantaire gasps again.

“Enjolras speaking of the nobility without derision,” he manages. “That proves it, I’m hallucinating. I’m in an alternate dimension. I’m concussed—oh, fuck, _Enj_ —”

 “That feel real enough?” Enjolras asks, feigning innocence even as he removes his mouth from Grantaire’s cock. Grantaire would roll his eyes, but they’re stuck on the line of Enjolras’s neck, the sweat at the root of his hair, the smirk on his lips. He’s going to cry, and it’s going to be incredibly embarrassing, and at least no one will find out because they aren’t going to talk about this after—

“We aren’t?” Enjolras asks, stilling his fingers. Grantaire pushes down against his hand even as his thoughts freeze mid-sentence.

“I—didn’t mean to say all that.” He will not fuck himself on Enjolras’s hand. He will not fuck himself on Enjolras’s hand, he will not fuck himself on Enjolras’s hand, he’s probably a terrible person for being turned on despite all this palpable disappointment, but hey, he’s used to it. 

“Look, I get it, communication is your thing, we can totally have the ‘that was fun, let’s still be sort-of-friends’ conversation as I put my clothes on and make an uncomfortable exit. I just meant—I mean, come on, we both know you aren’t going to go announcing this to Combeferre, for instance; you have a reputation to uphold.” Grantaire tries to shrug, but Enjolras’s fingers are still fucking in him, without, you know, _fucking_ in him, so he just kind of flails a bit. 

He dares to look at Enjolras. He looks… confused. Not his “how are there members of the proletariat who support capitalism?” angry confusion, not even indignant, just… surprised, and a little hurt.

He pulls his hand back. Grantaire has said a lot of dumb shit, to Enjolras especially, but he’s never regretted any of it quite this much. 

Enjolras flops down onto the bed. Grantaire burns at every point of contact: their sides, their thighs, their fucking elbows. Enjolras runs his clean hand through his hair and sighs. “I’m not ashamed of you, Grantaire. I have no problem with Combeferre or anyone else knowing we had sex. I’d have no problem with him seeing you in our kitchen tomorrow morning, if I were to get the nerve to ask you to stay the night—or—or to see us holding hands in fucking Starbucks because the inferior taste of fair-trade coffee is the bizarre and illogical hill on which you’ve chosen to die—”

“I’m in love with you,” Grantaire interrupts, because Enjolras would set foot in a Starbucks for the first time in six years just to appease Grantaire’s pettiness. Because it can’t get much worse. 

“I’m not ashamed of you,” Enjolras repeats, but his voice—which can be depended upon to be clear and still into countless megaphones and microphones for countless crowds, even when he had fucking bronchitis and Grantaire had to drive him across town to the doctor hours later because Enjolras was too fucking stubborn to listen to Joly’s _I told you so_ —is shaking. Grantaire knows he’ll doubt this all in the morning—in the morning, when he might still be in Enjolras’s bed, holy _fuck_ —but for now, he knows what Enjolras means.

“In that case, can we fast-forward to the part where I come? Because one would think I would have effectively killed the mood, but my current mood, Apollo, is unkillable—” 

Enjolras kisses him, and continues to kiss him as he jacks Grantaire off while rubbing against his thigh with a coordination likely induced by desperation, and continues to kiss him as Grantaire comes. Then, Enjolras tangles their fingers together and presses his forehead against Grantaire’s and watches, panting, as Grantaire fits his other hand between their bodies and wraps it around Enjolras’s cock. Grantaire strokes hesitantly a few times, and then with more certainty when Enjolras bites off a moan, and then he’s the one watching, vaguely awestruck, as Enjolras comes apart.

Grantaire is still alternating between staring at the ceiling and at the slope of Enjolras’s shoulders, contemplating the level of sacrilege he’d be committing were he to call this a religious experience and also whether that’s dehumanizing, when Enjolras stands up. After causing a lot of clattering sounds in the bathroom, he comes back with a warm washcloth and a glass of water. He throws the dental dam away while Grantaire cleans himself off as best as possible and downs the glass. Enjolras keeps glancing at his throat.

“Will you stay the night?” Enjolras asks, thankfully after Grantaire has finished the water and isn’t in danger of choking on happiness, or shock, or both.

“That depends,” Grantaire says, grinning. “Is there a venti non-fat extra-whip caramel mocha frappuccino in it for me?”

“How does that even work?” Enjolras asks, but he’s laughing. “How can it be non-fat while having extra whipped cream? Don’t you have to choose caramel _or_ mocha?”

Grantaire shrugs. “Guess you’ll just have to find out.” 

“Yeah,” Enjolras says, still smiling. “I will."

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on tumblr @basilhallward if you want to scream about these dudes, or just scream


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